


Era's End

by Cygrus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Awkward Tension, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-07-13 08:23:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16014065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cygrus/pseuds/Cygrus
Summary: Years pass. Lotor wakes at the Galaxy Garrison and learns to live in a world that no longer needs him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i miss lotor

He remembers suspension.

There were moments—just fleeting—of consciousness. Blinding light. Pitch darkness that he hadn’t found even in the deepest reaches of space. It had surrounded him, seeped into his skin and burned. And voices. There had been voices—several, but he retained nothing of what they had said. Had he responded to their calls?

Hands had touched him, held him, over and over. Familiar.

He remembers fear and anger and grief, 10,000 years of it, and then: nothing.

 

*******

 

He wakes again to blinding light, but then his eyes adjust, his breathing steadying as his hands grasp the air aimlessly. Sincline’s controls—where were they? His fingers ache where they had been curled, the nerves under skin taut. How long had he been holding on for? And for what?

The room smells sterile. He lays underneath a thin sheet. It falls away from his chest as he sits up in his bed, which is barely big enough to hold the length of him, and he realizes quickly that the clothes he wears aren’t his own. His armor, his gauntlets, his flight suit—every piece is missing, and a short, panicked look around tells him that he’s in unfamiliar territory.

There’s a window that reveals to him a blue sky, as well as small tables on either side of his bed. A monitor, which reads in a language he can’t recognize, seems to track his vitals, which are far weaker than he’s comfortable with. He places a hand against his chest, searches for the offbeat thrumming. His heartbeat, already plagued with a murmur, is slower than usual, even with the fear that begins to take him.

Grey and orange both surround and adorn him. His garments are loose, breathable, but nonetheless uncomfortable. Where his hand rests, fingers twist into the fabric. Haphazardly tossing the sheet aside, he touches his feet to a cold floor, but a new pain stabs through him when he stands. He stumbles and barely catches himself on one of the bedside tables, his entire body trembling. His chest heaves with effort, air not coming easy to him now.

He’s been in situations similar to this. Waking somewhere new wasn’t outside of the norm in all his years, except in those instances, he was often able to deduce his whereabouts and how he had arrived there. When he searches his memories, he’s met with ambiguity where there _should_ be clarity. A cold sweat drowns his body; this frightens him more than he’d dare to admit. Easing himself onto his knees, he groans when they make contact with hard tile, a terrible scratching noise reaching his ears as claws dig into the metal side table. Still, he hangs on as if it were his only anchor to reality. It might as well be.

Outside, he hears something akin to construction, filtered and distant. His head turns towards the window. He lets go of the table, falling to all fours. Dragging himself towards that expansive blue is a tedious task that leaves his head pounding, the veins in his arms rising alongside goosebumps. He thinks he’s been drugged—it’s been nearly 3,000 years since that last incident—and almost laughs at the notion. Instead of his voice, however, a pathetic wheeze leaves him as he pulls himself up onto the seat that stretches the length of the wall.

Wherever this is, it’s a base surrounded by miles of desert. Vehicles, both ground and airborne, swath the area, and from where his room is located, figures—which he recognizes as Olkarions after much scrutinizing—look like mere specks. They startle him, but what startles him further are the _humans_ that stand about, working from portable holoscreens.

Forehead pressing against the glass pane, his blood runs cold. Entire packs of them roam the grounds of this facility, clad in the same greys and oranges that paint his room, and then the blue sky is blocked momentarily by... an orange particle barrier, Altean in design. It’s gone just beats later, but he finds himself staring helplessly at where it once was.

He knows then that he isn’t safe.

Instinct kicks in; adrenaline takes hold. He forces himself onto weak legs and in a few strides, he’s at the door, claws raking furiously against metal. The screech doesn’t reach him this time, an awful pounding in his head deafening him. His other hand fumbles with a keypad that doesn’t respond to his touch; it’s designed for humans. There’s a brief moment where he desires to crush it under fist, but instead, he hooks his fingers into where the door and the frame join, and _pulls_.

Had he been at full strength, it would have opened easily, but he isn’t, and so it doesn’t. All he has is desperation. He pulls again, and this time, the door gives with a groan, though only by a margin. He’s met with resistance he can’t physically match. Sparks from breaking wires fly at him and touch down on his skin, but the shock of pain is nothing compared to the sickness he feels rising in his throat.

He pulls again; his shoulder pops out of place. His body begs him to stop.

He pulls again. This time, he screams, and it devolves into a series of useless cries. Warmth travels down his chin and drops at his feet: blood. He’d bitten his lip in his panic.

He pulls again, and the door opens in one smooth motion.

He barely registers the hands that restrain him, a pair on either side. A shriek escapes him as he’s pulled backwards and onto the floor, his head knocking against tile and blurring his vision, but he struggles against whoever pins him down. Their hold is powerful—one grip is a crushing force, capable of breaking bone, and Lotor has half a mind to shoot up and rip out their jugular, but none of the strength to actually do it.

Frantic voices surround him, echoing off the walls, but he can’t understand what they say. Two more pairs of hands wrap around his ankles and hold them in place, but he twists and is able to work one leg loose, knocking his knee into someone’s gut. He hears them collapse next to him with a groan, and he almost prides himself on the fact, but he knows this is a struggle he’s losing. Tears pool at the corners of his eyes; fear takes him in its arms.

And then his vision goes, replaced with luminescence instead, and he thinks that _this_ is familiar. It’s comforting, eases his mind, and though he still feels his limbs writhing helplessly, calm washes over him. His screams are but distant noise now, no longer his own.

Claws—he hadn’t even realized they were out—rip at cloth and catch on thread. From somewhere else, a voice tells him, _“You’re safe.”_ For once, he believes it. Warmth engulfs his body, his soul. This fight that he’s found himself in ceases to exist. He isn’t held down by unseen forces; he isn’t trapped in a world that he knows wants him dead.

He doesn’t exist there, only here. He reaches forward into light; someone takes his hand, but their touch is chilled by death. They hold him tight, and he thinks, _Where_ is _here?_

The light drains and he’s back on the cold floor, his chest heaving as he gasps for air, his skin damp. Muscle and sinew ache. Where hands hold him, blood vessels have broken underneath his skin, leaving behind ugly bruises. The shapes surrounding him are all a blur, dull. Grey. Orange.

Blue.

What clouds his vision fades, and then, light.

 _Allura_.

She breathes, “Lotor.”

Her fingers press at his temples, the cyan glow emanating from her beginning to dim, and with a hoarse voice, he whispers her name in return. The grip the others have on him loosens, but they don’t let go yet. His eyes dart to them. On his right is the Blade member, Keith. On his left, Shiro.

And above him, Allura, who helps him shift until his head lays in her lap. He doesn’t resist now, his lips parted in awe as her gaze softens. He tries calling her name again, but what he manages instead is a pathetic whimper. She reacts, and he doesn’t know what he had expected, but it hadn’t been tears, and it hadn’t been a smile.

The sun shone not in the sky, but in that very room instead.

“You’re safe,” she says. “You’re safe, Lotor.”

He holds her gaze.

She whispers, “Rest.”

And he does.

 

*******

 

Waking is a slow process, but not one he endures alone. He falls in and out of consciousness, sometimes waking to pain he can’t process, other times waking to relief that doesn’t last. The passage of time becomes lost to him; all he knows is that a full moon hangs in the sky at one point, taunting him with the vitality he doesn’t possess, unable to even shift without his body tormenting him. Anger is brief, however, as he closes his eyes again and doesn’t wake for another few days.

In those fleeting moments of coherence, the few and far between intervals where he understands his setting, he’s met with by medical personnel monitoring his vitals, and sometimes, Allura herself. He forces himself awake when she’s there, his eyes following her, drinking in her every movement. She doesn’t linger, though, only staying long enough to check in with his nurses and see if he’s strong enough to talk, but his voice—what Dayak had once deemed his most powerful weapon—gives out at some point.

The more he comes to, the more pathetic he feels. He chokes on his words, can’t sit up without assistance and painkillers, and can barely comprehend what his attendants speak of. At the very least, he recognizes the pitiful looks they give him and thinks this is more sympathy than he’s ever received before. He’d had bouts of weakness as a child, days where he could barely walk and was forced to take lessons while bedridden, but that had been millennia ago. It was then that he’d promised himself he wouldn’t get like this again, but he’d fallen from grace somewhere along the way.

One night, he wakes to Allura at his bedside, the room dark save for the waning rays of moonlight that illuminate their figures. The monitor still follows his heartbeat, a gentle beeping he barely registers anymore. When he breathes in, it’s not the scent of medicine and cleaners that comes to him, but something sweet instead.

He knows she’s there, and his breath hitches when a familiar touch traces down his cheek, as if her finger were following a line, before her hand travels to stroke the top of his head, slow, tender, radiant. He feels as a child might: loved. Barely able to look at her, he manages a smile, one she returns.

“Go back to sleep,” she whispers, her voice a melody among the silence. “You’ll be back to yourself soon. I promise.”

His fingers flex numbly at his side, and despite better judgement, he lifts his arm, caressing her cheek. She stills, then leans into his touch, her smile turned solemn. He wishes that his voice would come to him. He wants her to know that she’s beautiful.

When he wakes again the following morning, she’s gone from his side, and he’s left alone with his longing.

 

*******

 

As strength returns to him, curious eyes wanting to see the “supposed alien prince” begin to linger outside his room, which he’s since learned is in a Galaxy Garrison hospital. The planet Earth had never been on his radar until his first personal encounters with the human paladins, but even then, it had only registered to him as a place of importance in days yet to come, when the war was over, when the splintered Galran factions had given into subjugation, and when the paladins were ready to induct their homeworld into the growing Coalition.

He’s missed those key points in the universe’s history, where fate is rewritten by those who seek peace and prosperity, and when he learns that he’s been presumed dead for over four years, his stomach empties into a nearby trash bin.

Not daring to ask anymore details, he sleeps instead, nightmares plaguing him until he wakes again. It becomes routine, just as his check-ups and meals do, and a week passes in tandem. His nameless “visitors” lessen; the Garrison puts a ban on his room at the request of his doctor—Dr. Wright—allowing him better rest, though it was never the root of his problem and does him little good. The presence of those wanting a glimpse at the once-emperor isn’t missed, however; he was never keen on being treated like an animal, a _showcase_ —a bitter sentiment left over from his younger years.

“You’re popular,” Shiro tells him, accompanying Allura on one of her visits. “There’s been a lot of talk about you throughout the Garrison. You should introduce yourself, once you can.”

Lotor gazes up at him, taking in his profile and how he’s… changed, since last they saw each other. Shiro offers a wary smile; Lotor can’t return it, instead looking away, his chest aching. Shiro leaves without goodbye shortly after that, and Lotor doesn’t see him for some time afterwards.

“Go easy on him,” Allura says. “He’s had it hard.”

Lotor doesn’t ask her to clarify, instead closing his eyes as if to ignore the small scolding he’s been given. Allura sighs and reaches forward, brushing her thumb against his cheek.

“We all change,” she murmurs. Lotor peeks at her through one eye, a brow raising. Perhaps she learned to read minds in Oriande. The powers she possesses is beyond him. Her expression softens as her thumb traces that same line again. “You’ve changed, too.”

 

*******

 

When he brings himself to stand again, he still struggles, even with the pairs of arms that support him, Dr. Wright on one side, a nurse by the name of Ayden on the other. Lotor’s knees buckle underneath him, and his size nearly drags the other two down. He’s swiftly returned to his bed where Ayden, a diligent young man with a speckled face and kind eyes, helps him to sip water from a paper cup.

Dr. Wright’s brows draw together. “It’s too soon,” she insists, “for you to be moving around. We barely understand the root of your problems—”

“We’ll get him a walker,” Ayden says, holding Lotor’s shoulders. “I’ll help him.”

“Ayden—”

Lotor clears his throat and looks to Dr. Wright, his silent plea reaching her. She breathes out a sigh and motions for Ayden to go, which he does quickly. In his absence, she says to Lotor, “I’m not going to spoil you.”

Ayden returns with the device they call a walker. He helps Lotor stand again; willpower is what allows Lotor to stay stable. Dr. Wright follows behind as they enter the hallway, void of any sort of commotion Lotor has come to associate with hospitals. No noise comes from behind closed doors; no nurses pass on their daily routines. It’s a world left solely to them, and Lotor almost thinks it lonely.

Escorted to a room with rows of shower stalls, Dr. Wright states that she’ll return once Lotor has finished, leaving him to the care of Ayden. The door closes behind her, and Lotor moves towards the nearest stall, holding up a hand when Ayden attempts to follow him.

“I… can handle this…” he manages. Ayden, bright-eyed, nods and steps away.

Washing himself is tedious, worse than he imagined it would be. He almost calls on Ayden several times, but bites his tongue when his pride wins out. This is too intimate a task, and even with Allura’s reassurance that he’s in good hands, he’s reminded of his last moments of clarity, four years ago when his near-demise was delivered at the hands of _humans_.

Aside from Shiro and Allura, none of the other paladins have come to his room, not since the day they subdued him and he left a bruise the size of his knee on Pidge’s stomach. Allura was the one to inform him of this, and though he at first felt remorse, the pettier part of him decided that a bruise in return for almost killing him was a more than charitable exchange.

He braces himself against the shower wall, his muscles aching worse with every passing minute. Heaving with effort, he dips his head down, lets scorching water burn at his back. No amount of water, however, washes him of his sins. Weeks of near solitude have left him a victim of his own mind, voices reminding him that his hands were bloodied, that the paladins had almost fallen prey to him.

That he’d almost killed her.

Slipping down the tiled wall, he goes to his knees, muffling a groan behind his hand. Each droplet pricks him, soaks into his skin, steam rolling off of his body. His breathing is rapid, short flashes of Sincline’s cockpit burden him, the quintessence field falling in and out of existence. His hands curl into fists; he presses them into his eyes, urges himself to calm down, but he sees blinding light.

What has four years done? The paladins have hardly changed—Allura mentioned time distortion, but hadn’t explained further, and he hasn’t asked, but no one has tried to tell him, either.

He doesn’t know where he’s been. He doesn’t know how he ended up here, on Earth. His throat aches with unanswered questions.

_Where was I?_

_What happened to my Empire?_

_What of my generals?_

_What of—_

_Honerva._

He stays there until the water runs cold and Ayden forces his way into the stall, kneeling beside him and draping a towel over his shoulders. Ayden speaks words Lotor doesn’t hear, encouragements to stand, but Lotor doesn’t heed them, only obeying when he’s forced up.

Sat on a bench, Lotor’s head lolls backwards, barely registering that Ayden dries him now. He squeezes his eyes shut; he hates this. He hates the feeling of foreign hands. He hates this _vulnerability_.

Ayden speaks to him still, but Lotor doesn’t listen, his gaze falling above Ayden’s head. Before him is a row of mirrors that line the wall.

His heart stops, briefly.

Standing before him is not the reflection he knows. Mussed hair falls in front of his face. Deep scars stain his torso, stretching along his arms, his neck. He’s grown pallid from illness; dark circles ring his eyes.

And under those dark circles are elongated Altean marks, horrifyingly red in color, trailing the expanse of his face before ending abruptly, just above his mouth.

He looks not at himself, but instead at the witch he vowed to never become.


	2. Chapter 2

Days are horrifyingly dull here, something he slowly realizes the longer he’s able to keep himself alert. Left without entertainment, the most he can do is stare out the window and admire the shock of blue that fills the sky, its vibrance briefly interrupted by passing aircraft that hold no regard for rules. Something in him longs to be out there with them, though, his chest burning to once again be airborne, a ruler of the heavens.

He hasn’t thought of his personal fighter for some time. He breathes a sigh and settles back into his bed, forcing his eyes shut as the nearly silent engines rush past his window, so close that he can feel the building shake with each round they take. _This isn’t an obstacle course_ , he thinks. _If these were my soldiers..._

But he has no soldiers, not now. Soon, he hopes. It’s a distant wish.

Another craft passes the hospital. His teeth grit together and he pulls the sheets up and over his head, curling into himself as the tremors progress. The sound of metal scraping together reaches him; he presses his pillow against his ears and hopes this _daily routine_ ends soon. He hasn’t a clue who these people intend to fight, but he thinks them more than ready.

He doesn’t have the means of complaining though, his voice not yet returned. The most he can manage is a pathetic croak unbecoming of a prince, but damn if he cares at this point. Pity is bestowed upon him regardless of whether he can utter a single syllable, and foregoing the ships and the construction and the several tests he endures, it’s the most exhausting part of his day.

He’s _more_ than this.

He’s more than their pity and their apologies and their sympathy. All they see, though, is a husk of what once _was._

_And what will be again,_ he assures himself.

Sleep almost takes him when the door slides open, unfamiliar footsteps approaching his bed. Tense, he doesn’t move, acts as though he’s asleep. There’s a breath of laughter, soft, nonthreatening. He relaxes but doesn’t acknowledge their presence, though he doesn’t need to.

Something heavy drops on the table near his head, and then the footsteps retreat.

Peeking out from under the sheets, he finds what appear to be thin booklets on his bedside table, and under them, something thicker and hardbound. The title of one booklet on top reads “SUDOKU”. He hasn’t even a vague idea of what that means, so he sets it aside and takes the heavier book.

_The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire: Volume 1_.

A small note is attached to its cover.

_So you don’t get too bored._

Lotor smiles to himself, his cheeks warming. This is far better than unwarranted pity. He opens the book to the first page and loses himself in precious texts.

 

***

 

It’s a week before his voice returns to full strength, and by then he’s able to move without his walker, the pain no longer excruciating but rather a mere annoyance. Dr. Wright doesn’t recommend he push himself too far, and while Lotor respects this fine, well-learned woman, he doesn’t attempt to heed her warnings. He lets himself out of bed often now, going to sit by the window so that he may observe the Garrison base, a small pile of books usually just an arm’s reach away.

His gift had been a pleasant and telling read, one he’d finished with ease by the second day. Taking advantage of his situation, he’d asked Dr. Wright for the second volume, and once done with that, the third. He’s nearing the fourth now, though he’s also been gifted texts from other series, all historical and pertaining to different reaches of the Earth. They appear to be part of a personal collection, as certain paragraphs are highlighted in yellows, notes are written in the margins, and several pages are earmarked. He doesn’t know who they belong to and hasn’t bothered to ask, though he’ll thank the gracious collector when the time comes.

What he understands now is that though Earth is relatively young, human civilization even younger, it’s still markedly rich with history. Wars have been fought and won, dignitaries both revered and abhorred, and technology improved at what he considers an astounding rate. Earth still lingers behind a good chunk of the universe, however. Perhaps with time and energy it will become more… impressive.

He snorts, which draws Dr. Wright’s attention.

“Well,” she says, “I’m glad that you’re in higher spirits now.”

He acknowledges her comment with a hum, though he’s barely aware of what she’d said. Listless, he gazes back at the vague image of himself in the window, red blooming on lilac. Fingers brush at his newly transformed marks; he wonders if they’ll stretch any further, past his mouth and down his chin. It doesn’t much matter, though. He’s Altean; camouflaging unwanted marks wasn’t impossible. It would take some doing, some practice he hadn’t yet had, but before long, they’d melt back into his skin as if they’d never been there to begin with.

He won’t celebrate that day, however. The nights he’s spent in front of mirrors longing for marks weigh on him. When they’d first appeared at the edge of Oriande’s gates, it had been a brief but happy occasion, his heart having fluttered with childlike excitement. A dream at last come true. Never had he thought that he’d wish them gone.

The witch ruins everything precious. He knows this.

He wonders how his citizens might react.

Pressing his forehead against the glass, he watches fighters fly past, now used to the routine they follow. Groups of what appear to be human children gawk from the ground, and he can’t help but smile. Flocks of fledglings weren’t common in the Empire; they were almost always placed in secluded imperial academies, just until they were of age and ready to be integrated into Galran society. From what he could see, Earth was apparently a bit more nurturing in this field.

Another fighter passes, though this one is far more advanced than the rest, a vibrant cyan the mark of its Altean qualities. In her last visit, Allura told him a bit about the Garrison’s upgraded technology, forged by humans and Olkarions and powered by Balmeran crystals. It was a fascinating discussion that she had carried by herself, aware of the silence he couldn’t help.

He’d managed one question, though: why were Olkarions and Balmerans here? She seemed pleased to answer, telling him that Earth had become something of a universal hub for the Coalition, aliens from even the furthest reaches the universe coming and going as they pleased. Some had made their homes here, too, former Galra soldiers included. Whether they know of his survival is lost on him.

Reinstating himself as Emperor will be difficult. His position had already been met with much backlash, the empire crumbling at his fingertips. A four-year disappearing act won’t make them anymore keen on him. He supposes there’s no perfect leader, though. His father had been proof of that.

“You’re the curious type, aren’t you?” Dr. Wright says, standing beside where he sits.

Lotor almost laughs. “‘Curious’ is not usually the word used.”

“Oh?”

“Meddling is closer.”

He hears the smile in the tone she takes. “Earth is a haven for the meddling types, especially now.” Leaning closer to the window, she peers out at the children below, her smile turned solemn. “Four years changed so much. The Garrison has never been this busy, not in all my time working here. It’s a miracle that so many survived the invasion.” A beat passes. “But so many didn’t.”

She falls silent then, the air around her having changed. Lotor regards her. He knows that human lifespans are short, and he’s not sure what constitutes age in their appearances, but she seems past her prime, tanned skin wrinkling around her eyes and forehead. Her face is framed by graying brown hair; glasses sit on the bridge of her nose. Diligent yet kind, this is a side of her he’s not yet seen, though he knows her to say lonely, reminiscent things.

He understands then. “You lost someone.”

Her eyes widen briefly. There’s a pause as her mouth draws into a fine line, and she swallows thickly. After a few moments, she says, tightly, “My son. It was early on. He died a hero.”

Lotor gazes at her, then turns away, looking at nothing. “I apologize.”

“Don’t. I’ve heard my share of apologies.”

And so he says nothing else, both of them suspended in that moment where words don’t come easy. He’s lost people, too, though he doesn’t know the sorrow a son’s death would bring. It’s a harrowing thought he doesn’t dare dwell on.

Salvation comes in a rhythm of beeps that sound from behind them, the door sliding open. Allura and, to Lotor’s surprise, Shiro, step into the room as Dr. Wright straightens and greets them, her usual smile returned.

“Allura,” she says, not noticing how Lotor frowns at the lack of formal title that _should_ precede Allura’s name. Then, much softer, “Takashi.”

Returning her greeting, Allura moves past Dr. Wright and towards Lotor while Shiro lingers behind. He and Dr. Wright stand close to each other, speaking in hushed tones. She regards him as a mother might. Lotor barely catches Shiro’s words to her: “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much, Julie.”

Leaving them to their conversation, Lotor’s attention returns to Allura, who stands in front of him with her hands hidden behind her back. There’s a smile that lights up her entire face, her eyes twinkling with apparent excitement. Lotor smiles himself, though his brows knit when she says nothing, a pause drawing out.

“Allura—” Cut short, a pair of folded clothes is shoved towards him. He hesitates, so Allura inches them closer and closer until he’s forced to take them from her.

“Surprise,” she says as Lotor looks between her and the new garments. “Courtesy of the Garrison. We, ah, took your measurements while you slept. I apologize for how crude that may sound, but we couldn’t have you running around in hospital clothes for the rest of your stay here.”

_You could return to me my regular clothes_ , he thinks, but holds his tongue. Glancing behind Allura, he finds both Shiro and Dr. Wright smiling, too. Everyone but him seems entirely pleased.

Shiro says, “We’ll give you some privacy.”

“Don’t push yourself,” Dr. Wright adds.

They’re gone seconds later, leaving him and Allura alone in that suddenly stuffy room. Lotor’s gaze travels from the door to her, heat pooling inside of him. She’s entirely unperturbed, though, motioning towards the clothes with that same twinkle. He takes the cue and unfolds them slowly, revealing the same orange and white uniform she wears. Gray pants lay underneath the outer coat. The fabric itself is decent and likely comfortable, but that doesn’t stop his mouth from twisting with distaste.

When he says nothing, she speaks instead. “It’s the Garrison’s cadet uniform.”

“Cadet,” he echoes.

“Yes. It’s not the most becoming outfit, I admit that, but when I wear it, I feel that I have a purpose here.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, breathing out a laugh. “Well, as if I belong, that is. If it means anything to you, it’s rather comfortable, more so than what you’re wearing now.”

Thumbing the fabric, he remains silent. He’s seen several young humans wearing this same uniform, their ranks below that of people such as Shiro. That Allura wore it, too, was beyond him. A _uniform_ giving her purpose? The very idea is absurd. Her role is greater than any other in the universe. Surely she realizes that.

“Oh,” she starts, “if you’re worried about your old armor, we still have it, though it’s a bit damaged from our fi—”

“Your crown is gone,” he says, frowning up at her. Her smile falls. “Where is it?”

He’s taken her by surprise, her jaw slightly agape. Without an answer, she averts her gaze, something unlike her. He knows her to carry herself with confidence and grace, overwhelming traits that make her such a magnificent presence. They’d been enough to make the absence of a crown unnoticeable.

“Allura—”

“It was a necessary sacrifice,” she states, hands fisting at her sides. A barrier builds itself between them. “Its jewel belongs to Shiro now. I keep the rest of it in my quarters.”

He thinks of Shiro’s arm and the recognizable cyan it radiates. A crown jewel— _belongs_ to him? Were there no other means of powering it? He’d think it a waste, but he knows the paladins to not be the most resourceful in their dealings.

Setting the uniform aside, he stands, and she steps away. His heart falters, but he doesn’t mention it, other concerns at the front of his mind now. “You sacrifice your crown, you wear a _cadet’s_ uniform—” He breathes a laugh at that one, brows drawn together. “Next you’ll tell me that you’ve relinquished possession of your _castle_ to the Garrison.”

The shock that overcomes her makes him still, sweat beading at his nape. There’s a certain hurt in her eyes that’s all too familiar; she looks as if he’s dug his claws into an old wound, tearing skin and drawing fresh blood. He’s said too much. Part of him wants to apologize—he almost does, but then she’s scowling, accepting his challenge with a dangerously quiet, “Excuse me?”

And a nerve in him is struck, words of apology lost. He meets her head on, equal parts exasperated and confused. “You’re a princess. What right do they have to force you into their uniform? Not even a _doctor_ calls you by your title. They’ve stripped you of your possessions—”

“A princess,” she growls, surging forward and jabbing a finger at his chest, “is _not_ her possessions. What right do _you_ have to question all of this?” Lotor steps backward when she moves again, nearly stumbling as the backs of his knees hit the bench. Her tone turns desperate, but no less furious. “They’ve been more than amicable to my circumstances and have helped progress the universe by _years_ , while _your_ mind was off Ancients’ know where, after _you_ destroyed my castle!”

The air stills. Nothing and no one moves. Allura’s breathing has gone ragged, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes, which are hate-filled and unyielding. Her hand now fists into the fabric of his shirt. He searches her gaze as he feels himself grow cold beneath it. There’s no lie in her words, no deception in her posture.

The Castle of Lions is gone.

The Castle of Lions is gone, and it’s his fault.

Lotor feels the shock of it as he jerks himself out of her hold, falling back on the bench. He watches Allura’s expression shift from anger to horror, her hand going immediately to her mouth as she turns away. Lotor tears his gaze from her, his throat thick.

He’s exhausted, processing the weight of her words as his vision begins to swim, something common nowadays. A nearby monitor’s rhythmic beeps helps his mind steady, though he can’t begin to focus on any one thing. Moments later, Allura sits beside him. The space she leaves between them, however, is apparent. Again, he doesn’t mention it, knowing that any of the delicate intimacy they’d shared during quiet nights is lost now. His thoughts instead narrow in on the castle, and though he’d already begun to remember much of the fight between himself and Voltron, it’s one detail he can’t recall.

He wants desperately to ask, but his voice leaves him again, unsure of where to begin. The notion of him destroying something so precious to the universe, to _her_ , makes his stomach churn. He thinks bitterly that, in all probability, it’s one of the lesser crimes he’s committed against the mighty Voltron. Allura’s silence is sharp and does nothing to help. She looks ready to cry, her lower lip trembling. He has to stop himself from taking her hand; he curls his fingers into his palms instead.

Softly: “Allura—”

“I’m sorry,” she says, quiet. “You didn’t destroy the Castle of Lions. It was a decision made by the paladins and I.”

Some semblance of relief reaches him, but only barely. “Why?”

She hesitates, and seems to force herself to look at him. “After… After our fight, your jumping in and out of realities created severals tears in the fabric of time and space. They were expanding, and we—”

“Used the Castle of Lions to close them,” he realizes. It makes sense now. “The teludav?”

Allura smiles despite herself and even manages a laugh. Lotor’s heart stutters. “It’s a wonder why you and Pidge never hit it off. You’re so alike sometimes.”

He grimaces. “I doubt she’d much care for that comparison.”

“Perhaps not.” Allura fully turns to face him; her hand twitches forward, then fists. “I… Again, I’m sorry. It wasn’t your fault—” She stops short, frowning, her eyes flickering with brief contempt. “Not… _entirely_ your fault. What I mean is, none of us were in our right minds—not really—so we’re all technically— I’m still upset, of course, but not just at _you_ —” Her tone grows exasperated. “I mean, what you did was absolutely _inane_. Tearing reality itself? I took you as more cautious than that, but that isn’t—”

Reaching out, his hand covers hers, and though she tenses, she doesn’t resist him. Her gaze goes elsewhere, lashes hooding her eyes. Carefully, Lotor brushes his knuckles against her jaw, urging her to look at him. “Allura,” he says, his voice a gentle timbre, “I understand. I was careless, and took from you something dear. You don’t have to consider my feelings.” He has to pause and force the next words, though he manages to do so smoothly. “You won’t hurt them.”

It’s better she be mad now than come to hate him later. His heart can’t endure that loss again, not when she’s here beside him, delicate fingers curling up into his palm. Bold, he leans in closer, thankful that she doesn’t push him away. She stares at where their hands join and says nothing.

Then: “Lotor, I… We shouldn’t—”

“Why are you being so kind?” he asks then, thoughtlessly, though it’s been at the back of his mind for some time now. Her brows draw together. “I will admit to not knowing the entire story, but I remember enough to know that I am not deserving of your good graces. You’ve been avoiding this discussion—”

“No, I—”

“—but I can no longer stand not knowing, Allura.” He stalls, gripping her hand tighter now. “What… _happened_ to me? Where have I been?”

Allura’s stare is piercing. Perhaps this isn’t the time to bring it up, but he’s noticed her past hesitation all too well, when their one-sided conversations lulled and she would hastily excuse herself, leaving nothing to chance. He’s burned with the desire to ask her several times; now is the only opportunity he has.

He nearly repeats himself before she shakes her head, defiant. “No,” she says. “Not right now, Lotor. You’re still recovering—”

“Recovering from _what?_ I know that I am weak, but my mind is in top form.” A lie; his focus isn’t what it once was. “I realize that, for whatever reason, you’re trying to protect me, but this can’t continue any longer. What good will this mindless back-and-forth do us?” He holds her shoulder, grip as firm as his tone. “Allura, what happened after our fight?”

Silence, and then surrender. Allura squeezes his hand in turn, nails digging at his flesh. He hates to push her this way, but is glad that she concedes. “Alright,” she says, resigned, “we’ll discuss it tomorrow. I’ll have the paladins join me—if you’re comfortable with that.”

The way that his stomach flips tells him that he isn’t, but he agrees regardless. He’s already edging the limits of what she’ll allow. She stands; their hands linger together then release as she steps away.

“I have a meeting to attend right now, but I’ll come to check on you later.”

“That isn’t necessary—”

“Yes, it is.”

She offers an unreadable smile before going to the door. Lotor’s watches her leave, not glad for the privacy he’ll once again endure alone, but he doesn’t dare ask that she stay. Other important matters must be at hand.

“Allura?” he starts. “About your crown—”

“Lotor,” she bites back, turning to look at him with knitted brows. Her gaze carries with it a warning. Lotor’s pulse startles, his chest grown heavy with something he can’t place. Her hand hovers over the keypad—the Garrison must have adjusted the lock to respond to her touch. He wonders if it might work for him, should he try it again, though his first incident likely renders the Garrison hesitant. “We’ve already exhausted this conversation,” she continues. “With or without my crown, I’m still—”

“I know.” Gathering himself, he stands, a bold move for someone who has only recently started walking again. Allura, knowing this, makes move to help him, but he stops her before she can. “You’re a princess, Allura, but not in the same way that I’m a prince.”

Her mouth twists in confusion.

He says, “I was stripped of those privileges—of that power—only a prince in name. Such a title was meaningless to the empire. Even as an emperor, my people did not dare place their faith in me, and if they did, they exhibited caution. Perhaps they were right to. I was an exile—a mere brat, to some.” He breathes a laugh. “A poison to others. _You_ , however…”

Stepping towards her, he stops when they stand an arm’s-length apart. She’s turned to him now, having to tilt her chin up so that they may see eye-to-eye. His words leave him for a moment. She’s a marvelous sight that he cannot afford to dwell on.

“The Coalition needs you to act as the leader you were raised to be. They look to you for guidance. What you say is true—as leaders, we are not our possessions, but our prowess instead. You stand as a promise to the universe, you give meaning to your position as a princess. Even here, that title means something to them. Don’t let Earth make you forget who you are.” Bowing his head, he finishes, “Your _purpose_ is to be yourself.”

There’s no response. Perhaps he’s said too much, but his words still stand. Allura doesn’t acknowledge him, her gaze downcast, and he frowns. Reading the air, he moves to seat himself at the edge of his bed, waiting.

Finally, she mumbles, “You’re rather talkative today.”

“Four years of silence will do that to a person.” And then: “I apologize for overstepping my bounds.”

She regards him briefly, then turns to the door again.

“Allura.”

“What?” She practically snaps it, and he can’t help but smile, amused.

“I wanted you to know that orange is rather becoming on you.”

She leaves, but he’s able to catch how the tips of her ears turn red.

 

***

 

Rising with the sun, he dons a uniform the same color as its morning rays. It’s fitted perfectly, though it lacks the personal touches he’s always preferred in his wardrobe, armor and coverage in particular. His gauntlets, or rather his lack thereof, troubles him in particular; most of his research is stored in their banks. Making a mental note to ask for them back later, he stands in front of the window, back straight and shoulders set.

The Garrison already moves in tandem, as a routine-based military facility should. It seems that much work has gone on through the night and into the early morning hours. Vehicles travel in and out of the base, and not far past the particle barrier’s limits is a city that looks on the brink of collapse, only held steady by crane-like structures, some human, some alien. Part of him itches to venture out into that unknown, though he knows that Dr. Wright—Julie, as Shiro had called her—would have his head should he ever try.

He’s never been the type to sit idle, however, a trait that Dayak had never been quite able to whip out of him. Whether it had been fidgeting in his seat or where he stood, he remembers well the stream of snaps against the rounds of his cheeks had he even dared to avert his gaze. Growing older did nothing to subdue this quirk of his—rather, it had become worse with time, when he had grown more aware of the impending danger in Galra Headquarters that had painted his kind—half-breeds—as its target.

Dayak had been careful to shield him from this reality, keeping him always in her sights, holding him at an arm’s reach, but her efforts could not protect him forever. He’d first heard the whispers when he was only a child, sprightly and bright-eyed as Dayak had once put it, but luster was lost with that first snarl of, _“Bastard.”_ He recalls the shock that had gone through him in that moment; it was then that he learned the title of “prince” meant nothing to his—nay, his _father’s_ —people. Perplexed and looking for answers, he’d turned to Dayak, who betrayed her own ruleset by looking away and, after bowing her head, ushering him past the set of guards who’d dared to defy Lotor’s privilege with venom-laced words. For the first and last time in all the years he’d known her, she cancelled their scheduled lessons for that night and instead taught him the truth.

_“You live in a dangerous world, Lotor.”_

Those words had remained with him in the thousands of years that passed. Dayak had been merciless, even cruel, and though he now resented his upbringing and the violence tied into it, he couldn’t bring himself to hate _her_. Emotionally distant as she was, she’d once solemnly mentioned her life on Daibazaal and how glorious those years had been. It didn’t take much thought for him to connect the pieces; she’d no doubt befriended Alteans, perhaps had even known Honerva, but she’d also been forced to experience the loss that came with Altea’s demise. It was because of her age that his heritage had never been a thing of shame in her eyes, and she’d raised him under that same belief, though it had always been in private, where the inquisitive types couldn’t hear them. Her faith—and her beatings, he supposes—had made him stronger.

He worries the cuffs of his sleeves. Dayak; he wonders how she’s fared in his absence. He wonders if she’s still alive.

This is why he hates time spent alone; it allows for too much introspection, and pondering 10,000 years worth of it is detrimental to even the strongest minds. He drags his fingers over the top of his head, setting any wild hairs straight, then turns for the door, not bothering to hover his hand over the keypad. Instead, he punches in the code he’s seen medical personnel enter several times now. The door opens easily.

Empty hallways greet him. Screens installed into the walls tell the date—which he admits to not knowing, given that there’s no “March” anywhere else in space—and the time. The screen he stands in front of flashes to a list of what appears to be news involving the base. He lingers there and derives no useful information, other than that day’s lunch menu.

Just as he’s about to move on, the screen changes again to a new scene, and he’s caught unaware by the looming image of a spacecraft boasting bright whites and vibrant oranges—and even cyan panels. He goes slack-jaw as the overwhelming glory of it is displayed. If his calculations are correct—and they usually are—it appears to be around the same size as the Castle of Lions, just more rotund and Earth-like, but no less beautiful. Along the bottom of the screen is a stream of words:

**“ATLAS REPAIRS NEAR COMPLETION; EARTH’S TITAN SET TO TAKE TO THE SKY IN TWO WEEK’S TIME.”**

Sudden guilt burdens him; he’d underestimated Earth and its prowess. Any shame he feels passes quickly, however, as he moves past the screen and wonders where this “Atlas” is located. Surely the Garrison wouldn’t be opposed to giving him a tour, especially since they seem so keen on showing it off to the rest of the world. For the first time since he’s woken, he feels a tremble of excitement in his chest, a smile curling onto his lips.

And then he gets lost.

The further he walks, the more bothered he becomes, the bright corridors silent and barren. He entertains the thought that perhaps this entire floor had been reserved solely for him, but it’s a ridiculous notion. He’s able to tell that Earth has endured a war, and if the state of the neighboring city is anything to go by, it hasn’t been long since its end. Casualties had surely amassed because of it, and if he knew one thing about war, it was that any remaining resources went towards refugees, hospital rooms no exception. He remembers the camps of those who had survived Galra occupation; the stench of old blood that permeated the area; the death tolls that rose with each new body-burning.

Bile rises in his throat and he forces it down, barring the images from his mind. Regardless, the lack of any other patients, as well as medical personnel, is damning evidence, and Lotor finds himself doubting Earth once again. If this floor belongs solely to him, he can’t help but wonder why. He knows the paladins—some of the paladins—are more intelligent than that. Moreover, they’re selfless— _usually_ , not always—and wouldn’t take needed space away from others just to accommodate him.

He rounds a corner and realizes he’s gone in a circle. A frustrated groan he’s been harboring escapes as he presses his back against a wall. Galra HQ had been guilty of this problem, too: everything looked the same. The only difference was that Galra HQ wasn’t pleasant enough to provide potted plants and folded brochures, tucked away in squared alcoves, for viewing pleasure.

He searches the hall he stands in now, number plaques on room doors serving as the only clues to his whereabouts, but this hospital is surprisingly large, and to his dismay, there’s no map. There _is_ , however, a glass case recessed into one wall. Framed pictures of doctors and nurses grin back at him, their achievements plated in golden awards.

He crosses his arms, a breath of amusement leaving him. “I don’t suppose you all could tell me where I’m going?”

There’s a pause before the glass changes color to orange, startling him. Something akin to a menu appears, acting as his first glimmer of hope. A robotic voice says, “STATE YOUR NAME.”

Lotor peers around him. “I’m... looking for the Atlas—”

The glass flashes red. “UNIDENTIFIED VOICE. STATE YOUR NAME.”

This is pointless. He waits until the program times out, returning to its clear mode. He misses his gauntlets in that moment; they would have provided him an idea of where he’s been and where he’s yet to go, but alas, he’s about as knowledgeable as an Earthling perusing the corridors for the first time themselves.

A voice—Ezor’s—comes to him: _“If you get lost, just stay where you are until someone finds you!”_

It had been several, _several_ years ago, when his team wasn’t yet in shambles and the universe was theirs for the taking. They’d found themselves on a jungle moon, searching for any local populations interested in being absorbed into Lotor’s faction. The jungles had been dense, however, their radars rendered useless by thick, debilitating moisture that hung in a fog around them. Walking for hours had done them no good, and with no sense of which way led where, they’d been left with no choice but to heed Ezor’s advice.

She’d grown bored within an hour and, against better judgement, took off on her own. Lotor can’t help but smile remembering. He’d never seen Zethrid so panicked.

He’s lucky that this isn’t a jungle. Seating himself on the floor, he waits.

And grows bored within twenty minutes, but 10,000 years is the best lesson in enduring boredom. He wishes he had his “SUDOKU” with him. How far he’s gotten with it is aggravatingly small, but it isn’t his fault that Earth games are beyond him.

Another thirty minutes pass before the lights above flicker out, replaced with blinding red flashes and angry alarms. He covers his ears as a voice booms over the intercom, announcing that patient number 1145 has gone missing. Lotor pales.

“Oh dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to sarah, raw, gyo, and maria for helping me edit this time around. and thank any and all readers for both comments and kudos! enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

“Dr. Wright,” says Lotor, his brows drawn together and his back pressed uncomfortably to a chair, “while I appreciate your concern, I’m nearly 10,000 years old. I’m more than capable of handling my—”

Dr. Wright scoffs. “10,000 years or not,” she says, red in the face, “you look 26. At _ most _ .”

Lotor, desperate, looks to Allura for some semblance of an Altean-to-Earthling translation, but all she does is smile helplessly from where she sits.

“And regardless of your age,” continues Dr. Wright, “I will not have  _ my _ patients running amok without  _ express permission _ . Your health is my top priority, and you put yourself in harm’s way by wandering around without alerting anyone beforehand. Until your vitals are in top shape, until you stop having these wild  _ spells _ of yours—”

Lotor’s attention narrows in on her word choice.

“—and until you are discharged, you may not leave this premises, let alone this room, without my knowledge.”

Lotor swallows, unable to retort. Something had been bothering him since he’d come to know Dr. Wright. She’d reminded him of someone, and it isn’t until now that he’s able to put his finger on who.  _ Palen-bol! _

“I apologize,” he says, his pride taking a heavy blow as he’s reprimanded in front of a full room. He reminds himself that this wouldn’t be the first time—his father had been fond of the practice—but it’s a new experience for the paladins. From the way some of them grin, he thinks they might be enjoying it. 

He focuses again on Dr. Wright, who searches his gaze for any dishonesty. Then, once satisfied, she stands straight with an indignant huff. She turns her attention to the monitor that’s hooked to him through small, wireless probes, one in each palm, one over his heart, and one on either of his temples. Lotor looks, too, grimacing when he notices how his heart rate has grown, unsurprisingly, faster.

There’s a few minutes that pass quietly, noted only by the ticking of a clock and the beeping of the monitor, the paladins either watching him or playing with handheld devices. Ayden lingers, pale-faced. He too had been chastised for letting Lotor slip out, though that was hardly his fault. Lotor mouths an apology to him, which Ayden shrugs off with a smile like that of Allura’s: helpless.

Then Dr. Wright makes a note of his vitals before she waves to Ayden, a silent command to remove the probes, which Ayden does dutifully. Lotor watches Dr. Wright close the holoscreen and adjust both her glasses and her coat, eyeing Lotor carefully. Lotor attempts to weather her gaze, but feels small beneath it, as a child might. He looks away.

“No leaving,” she says firmly.

He frowns. “Even  _ with _ permission?”

“Just—” She heaves an exasperated sigh. “Give it a few more days. Your condition has been steady, but I’d hate for something to happen should you…” 

Trailing off, which is unlike her, she leans her chin into her palm. She looks at Allura, who shakes her head in return. Lotor’s attention darts between them, a brow quirked, unaware of the meaning behind their looks. He wonders what conversation they might be having. 

“Should you fall ill again,” Dr. Wright finishes. “Well. I’ll leave you to your conference.” 

The room chimes with goodbyes as she leaves, and the tension in Lotor’s shoulders releases. He has to stop himself from slumping in his chair or leaning bodily into the table before him. Ayden leaves next, clutching a clipboard to his chest and offering a bashful wave as he goes. Lotor returns it.

A hand—Shiro’s—clasps Lotor’s shoulder. Their eyes meet; Shiro smiles, similarly weary. 

“She does that because she cares,” he says. “Trust me. I’ve been in your position several times before.”

“‘Capable of handling myself’?” mutters Pidge, reciting Lotor’s earlier words with a bemused scoff. “We found you lost in a _ hallway _ .”

Lotor’s eyes narrow. “How is your stomach?”

Pidge’s eyes flicker briefly with surprise, but then she’s leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed, a cocky smile curling onto her mouth. “Capable of taking another beating,” she says.

Glancing her over, Lotor can’t help but think she’s a bit too confident and a bit too talkative for someone of her small stature, but bites the comment back and ignores the obvious challenge she’s posing. He folds his hands in his lap and turns his chin up, indicating their conversation is done. Indignant, she disregards him, too, and the air shifts from heavy to heavier. 

They sit in a circle—himself, the paladins, and Coran—around a single foldable table made from an old plastic. Its age is discernible by nicks and stains in its surface, unattended at the time and left to scar the piece. Upon it rests a device that displays an orange holoscreen. It faces Shiro, who expands the screen with a floating touch until both Keith and Allura, who sit on either side of him, can read its contents. Lotor, sitting next to Allura, catches a glimpse of a long list of topics. He grimaces.

Four years pales in comparison to his lifespan, but he’s not one to doubt how much can change in so little time.

The three venerated leaders talk amongst themselves in hushed tones. Lotor doesn’t bother to listen in on them. Whatever it is that they wish to say, they will, and he will know all before long. He thinks to grab one of his books, which sit in a stack just a few feet away on the window’s ledge, to read until they’re done, but decides against it. He doesn’t think he has the patience for reading right now, not when his morning has been wrought with trial already. He doesn’t need Earth’s troubled history to add onto it.

He lets his attention wander to the rest, his eye first catching the one who sits across from him. There’s a moment where Lotor cannot recall Lance’s name. This was a paladin whose presence had never much registered for Lotor—save for the overt and rather uncalled for animosity Lance had often displayed towards him. 

It seems as though not much has changed. Lance, who doesn’t notice Lotor staring, looks unhappy to be here. His thin brows are drawn together and the lines of his mouth are pressed even thinner. He has one leg thrown over the other; both of his hands are stuffed into his pockets. His disgruntled expression is interrupted by an exaggerated yawn. Lotor supposes it  _ is _ rather early to be awake and present at such a paramount meeting. He eyes Lance’s collar and how it’s considerably ruffled, especially in comparison to Keith’s, who sits between Lance and Shiro. 

Lotor’s gaze travels from Keith’s perfectly arranged collar upwards, and feels his pulse startle. Keith stares directly at him, his brows knitted and his eyes hard. He’s frowning. Lotor looks away quickly, sweat beading on the back of his neck. Eventually Keith turns back to Shiro so that he may give his input when asked for it. 

Lotor’s never had the honor of one-on-one time with Keith, but there’s no doubt that he’s as intense as the rest had once described him. He’s disciplined and direct—which are traits necessary for a Black Paladin. To be firm is to be a leader. 

Though it makes Lotor wonder how Shiro is faring in his “retirement”. Lotor knows little—only that Shiro is no longer the Black Paladin—but can tell that, whatever Shiro has been through, it’s somehow resulted in a new hairstyle and an Altean-powered arm. It’s a fine and unique prosthetic, floating at his side. He stares for a moment too long, however, and looks up to find Shiro watching him from the corner of his eye. 

Lotor nods, stiffly, as his hands twist into the fabric of his pants. His and Shiro’s last few encounters have been… unpleasant. He’d turned Shiro away when he came to his bedside; Shiro had held him down during a panic attack and Lotor had thought of ripping out his throat. Before those, Lotor can remember the vice grip Shiro had held him in, as well as the ensuing sickness he’d felt when he’d thought that Shiro had betrayed him to Haggar. 

He’s not sure what’s changed since then. 

The conversation ends and the room falls silent. There’s an air of uncertainty, no one sure of where to begin, or how. Lotor can see that they’re all tense—himself included—and the paladins exchange worried glances that they must think Lotor doesn’t catch. But he does, and he impatiently clears his throat. 

“Dr. Wright mentioned ‘wild spells’ that I’ve apparently been enduring as of late.” He sees the alarm that crosses each of their faces and knows they hadn’t intended to start with this. He continues, “I don’t doubt her expertise, but I have no recollection of these ‘spells’, aside from when I first woke here. Perhaps this is something you all can enlighten me on.”

Silence. Lotor frowns. Underneath the table, he taps a finger against his knee, his mind idly following a rhythm that’s helped him pass time in more extreme situations. He waits, reciting the ancient verse in his head, but as the silence stretches on, he knows they’re stalling. What irritates him is that he doesn’t possess the authority to coax whatever they withhold out.

He sits as still and silent as the rest of them, his brows pulled together. His temple begins to pound, but he doesn’t attempt to ease the building pain. As though playing a game, he tries to catch their eyes and fails each time. Prior experience has taught him that the paladins are, at times, hesitant in their dealings, but if they’ve bothered to drag him all the way to Earth, it’s only fair that they offer some explanation.  

Hunk speaks. “Your marks are, uh, cool.”

“The floor is empty,” says Lotor. “Am I the only patient on it?”

Keith answers, “Yes.”

Lotor looks off to the side and the rest of them turn their heads in tandem. Through the window, the distant city is within view, nearly decimated but still in tact. Lotor sees the markings of Galran occupation: relentless destruction void of remorse; ion cannon burns scorched into ruined steel. A massacre happened here, perhaps all over the planet, though he hasn’t been able to divulge that information yet. 

He hasn’t bothered to ask, either. He’s been on the offending side before and knows all the tricks. Whoever did this did it by the book, following methodically in Zarkon’s footsteps. They’d been trained, and trained well, depending on who you asked.  

The silence of his company has changed into something somber. When he looks to them again, he sees the mourning they’ve endured, but the bitter part of him can’t help but think them lucky. Their home planet still thrived, even when it had been in its death throes. Allura, Coran, the generations of Alteans Lotor had known, and the innocents of destroyed planets hadn’t been so fortunate. 

He’d never known home himself. The closest thing had been Allura’s touch, and now that, too, is unreachable. 

“Your people have been through it, have they not?” He cocks his head. “War came to your home. I’m unaware of how long ago it ended, but surely there are still those in need of treatment. Why has this floor been sectioned off for me alone?”

When there’s no response, Lotor grits his teeth, his frown deepset.  _ Ridiculous _ , he thinks.

“We cannot dally here all day. If the severity of the situation is so—”

“You were trapped,” says Hunk, distressed and pressured. “Well, no, I mean— Not trapped? You were, but then—” He speaks so fast he might bite his tongue. Unable to explain, he looks to the rest desperately.

Allura takes the torch. “After our fight,” she says, “we left you in the quintessence field. Do you remember that?”

He’d rather forget. He crosses his arms and raises a brow at them, arrogant, knowing that silence is answer enough. Their heads bow, but Lotor isn’t sure they’re ashamed.

“We left you there,” Allura repeats, quietly, “and Honerva got you out.”

A deep, untouched part of him twists painfully as his breath catches in his throat. The grip he has on his own arm tightens, his claws digging into the fabric until he thinks it might tear. He feels a bead of sweat form at his temple; it’s cold.

The light that he remembers—the  _ only  _ thing he remembers— He thinks that he’d rather not have known, but that isn’t true. What angers him is that he hadn’t already guessed himself, because now that he hears it, it makes sense in a way he doesn’t want to admit. The rift is a dangerous place, something he’s always been aware of, but never had he let that halt his research. It was a necessary risk, even when that risk was his health, his life, the lives of others.

But he’d never anticipated being left there to simmer in its light and overwhelming energy, vulnerable and alone and open to exploitation by whatever may reside within. It had been warm there, and there had been no pain, but no life, either. He thinks. He cannot recall feeling anything, he cannot recall begging for help, and he doubts he’d even tried. The rest of the universe is a cold and empty void. He knows it well, so why return?

He barely remembers anything following his fight with the paladins; it’s not out of the realm of possibility that the rift causes memory loss. It’s happened before, in Honerva’s case, though he has little knowledge of the event.

And then something in him moves and flickers, alight with new anger not only towards Honerva, but towards the paladins as well. He swallows anything he wishes to say—and he wishes to say  _ a lot _ —and regards them instead, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed. They gaze back at him and Lotor searches for any guilt among them. 

“Honerva,” he echoes, the name a bitter taste. The answer he’s received—he wasn’t prepared for it. Part of him feels numb, but as shock begins to fade, he thinks that it’s to be expected. The witch—Haggar, not Honerva,  _ not _ Honerva—has always been keen on intruding on situations she has no place in. 

But she’s also the only one who could have conceivably gotten him out, too. She knows the rift better than him, better than anyone, the paladins especially.

“Yeah,” says Lance, “your crazy mom.” 

Lotor feels himself react, his brows arching and the numb part of him turning cold. Several pairs of eyes turn on Lance all at once. He shrinks down in his seat, defiant yet meek. 

He says, “Hey, it’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Lotor frowns and clears his throat. “I’m surprised you’re all… aware of this unfortunate…” He struggles, casting his gaze elsewhere. “Fact.” It takes great effort for him to force the words out and hopes his distaste isn’t too obvious. “But know this. Though the witch and I are related by blood, I do not claim her as family. She is not the Honerva that lived abundantly.”

This is uncomfortable, and it reflects in all of their expressions, Coran’s in particular. Lotor doesn’t retract his statement. He refuses to be associated with Haggar, no matter the circumstances, and have what little good his name retains dragged through the mud. 

“Okay,” says Pidge, carefully, “that’s nice and all, but she definitely claims  _ you _ , so maybe that’s something to think on.”

Lotor looks to Allura, hesitancy in his tone. “Did  _ you _ tell them?”

Allura, however, is aggravated, her posture rigid and her voice pitched. “ _ You _ denied Haggar being Honerva. I went along with what you said because you seemed so sure of it—and surely you knew more than I did, but now you tell me that you’ve known all along?”

“Do you think it’s something I enjoy discussing? I’m not proud of it. Yes, I’ve known, but there’s— It’s  _ different _ .” Then, “Did you tell them?”

They gaze at each other, both unyielding. “How long have you known?” says Allura.

“Nearly my entire life. You came to the conclusion about as quickly as I did.  _ Did you tell them _ ?”

“—No. Other sources informed us.”

They both lean forward in their seats, as though posed to fight. Lotor cannot understand Allura’s anger—his relation to the witch is certainly not something he’d brag about, knowing well the shame she and his father have brought to their family.

Keith interrupts, “Is this really that important right now? We have other stuff we need to talk about.”

“It  _ is _ important,” Lotor says, whipping his head towards Keith, who startles a bit. “I understand that you feel no empathy for me, but these are things I have a right to know. This is  _ my _ life we’re discussing.”

They watch each other carefully, Keith considering Lotor, before Keith says, quietly, “I  _ do _ empathize with you.”

Lotor disregards Keith and addresses the rest of them, not noticing how his breathing has become labored. “You say that Haggar was the one to remove me from the rift. Have you any answers as to why? And why can I not recall any of this? How long have I been kept in her captivity?”

For the first time, Coran speaks, his voice softer than Lotor has ever heard it—and yet it’s edged, a similar edge to Coran’s gaze and the set of his shoulders. “You’re lucky,” he says, “that you can remember your own name.”

“Do not take me for  _ her _ ,” Lotor bites back. “Perhaps she lost herself, but I’m not so—”

He stops and realizes how fast he’s been talking—and how loud. He takes a moment and draws in a breath, reining in any anger or remorse. This is neither the time nor the place for him to lose himself. If he expects cooperation, he must play the good prisoner. 

“What,” he says, “was Haggar’s purpose?”

Shiro says, “We don’t much know, ourselves. All we know is that you…” There’s a pause where Shiro considers his next words. They come awkwardly, as though unsure. “You weren’t yourself.”

“Not myself.”

“The rift,” says Allura, having also quelled her anger, “changed you. How you were during our fight was, I believe, only the beginning.”

Lotor holds his tongue, well aware of the things he’d said during battle. Pretty ideas of how Voltron would meet its end with no legacy to remember; a new Altean empire; the genocide of the Galra. They think he’d been in the wrong state of mind—and he supposes that, to an extent, he was—but he cannot deny that such thoughts had crossed his mind before, absurd as they may be.

It’s information best withheld from the paladins.

Allura speaks. “You were… Crazed. Wild. Unlike anything I’d ever seen before.” She wrings her hands with her gaze down. Lotor cannot see her expression. She says, quietly, “A monster.”

He watches her with a new pain in his chest, a burgeoning feeling that becomes unbearable. He stands and moves towards the windows, clasping his hands behind his back, still as he gazes out over the expansive desert. He can feel the rest watching him, but doesn’t acknowledge it, instead struggling to remember anything from these four years past.

He remembers suspension.

Nothing more.

Lotor breathes a sigh and pinches the area between his eyes, his temple pounding yet again, worse this time. Warmth and suspension, but nothing of Haggar, nothing of imprisonment. What he does recall, however, were words Allura spoke to him in moments of panic and betrayal, before the onslaught occurred:  _ ‘You’re more like Zarkon than I could have ever imagined!’ _

“She used me,” says Lotor, his voice so quiet that it’s more of a personal thought, “for her own gain.” He turns back to the paladins and approaches slowly. “She used me,” he says again. “That is the only reason she would have…  _ rescued me _ —” Bitterly. “—from the rift. Another tool to her. Just as my father was. Just as he’d always been.”

Silence falls heavy again. He knows intimately that they’d all been content not remembering Zarkon and his tyranny, how he’d met his fate at the hands of his own son. Perhaps it was cause for celebration among many, but to those who had witnessed the downfall, it was not a warm discussion, but rather a bottomless trench no one wanted to fall into. 

And that was the reason it had hardly been brought up since, mentioned only in passing amidst necessary discussion. It was also why Lotor had never mentioned that it had been something he’d dreamt of for millennia—dreams of how grand that day might be, when he’d saved the universe and brought peace with a single death. Innocent and naive thoughts.

Instead it became the source of his nightmares in the days and weeks that followed. 

Standing over Zarkon’s dead or dying body is the last Lotor remembers of the fight, too weak to process pain, his fainting, or how he’d been dragged back aboard the Castle of Lions, the paladins shoving him into a healing pod and expecting him to live, but perhaps hoping he wouldn’t. 

He’d woken to Shiro as his company and, after collapsing into Shiro’s arms, asked of his father’s condition, his voice tinged with worried panic, before he fell asleep again. 

To this day he still isn’t sure what became of his father’s corpse; ceremony dictates that no funeral be held for a slain emperor, one who had been too weak to preserve even his own life. It was likely that anything that remained of him had rotted away by now, unmourned. 

But there  _ had _ been mourning. Brief, yes, hidden behind a facade of necessity that told him there were other matters to attend to—other matters that were far more crucial than remembrance for a murderer. 

And Allura had seen past that mask and, as best as she could, consoled him. She seemed to have a knack for it, getting through to others. In his grief her kind words had saved his sanity. 

“What for?” says Lotor to himself. “What piece was I in her scheme?”

“We don’t know,” Shiro answers. “You were just… You did her bidding. Whatever she told you—”

He laughs, though it’s barely even a breath. “The rift rendered me nothing more than a  _ puppet _ .” His voice is edged and quiet. His hands fist at his sides. “No better than Sendak. How pathetic.” Then, “So what of you? Your reasons for— Saving me, isn’t it? Bringing me here? I would give you my thanks, but I’d rather know if I serve a use to you all—or was it pity that guided your hand?”

Allura says, “Lotor, that’s not—”

“It was pity,” say Hunk and Pidge in unison.

“Also you were like, wicked dangerous,” adds Lance.

Lotor looks briefly at Lance before addressing the rest. “And you thought I deserved it? Your good graces?”

Again, Lance. “No,” he says, “but Dayak thought you did.”

Anger and shame give way to shock, and then, for the first time in a long while, relief. He doesn’t intend to doubt Dayak’s prowess; she has survived well over 10,000 years, but the confirmation that she’s alive out there nearly brings him to his knees. He steadies himself on the back of his chair and bites his tongue, forcing himself straight again, but they’ve already seen the change in his demeanor. Allura smiles, which dazzles Lotor momentarily. 

“I apologize,” she says. “Had we known you’d be this happy, we would have told you sooner that she’s well.” And then Allura’s brows raise high on her elegant and crownless forehead. “Though I faintly recall… Was it embarrassment? On your end, when we first met her.”

Lotor flushes. “Our relationship is… precarious, at best.” But he’s smiling, too, unaware of the way he looks at Allura. “Thank you,” he says eventually, “for letting me know.”

But now he finds himself riddled with more questions than before. He doesn’t wish to overwhelm them or talk for hours on end—and it’s as Keith said, there are other matters to discuss—but curiosity courts him. 

“What… did she tell you, exactly?”

Allura’s good mood goes. Lotor almost thinks she won’t answer. When he decides it’s better not to push his luck, she starts, slowly.

“That Honerva had… She’d been with child—with you—when her and Zarkon entered the rift. When they—” Allura stops and swallows thickly, reluctant, though Lotor knows with rising dread what comes next. He almost tells her stop, but his voice unwillingly catches. She says, “When they died.”

There are several implications, several facets, that have sweat beading at the nape of his neck. He tries not to react and does a good job of it until he unconsciously clutches the fabric covering his aching stomach. He’s acutely aware of his own breathing and how it seems to echo off the walls. It’s ragged and disjointed—and he’s standing too still and not saying anything when he should be. He should be denying this claim or waving it off as though it were inconsequential or just a funny little rumor, but he can’t. He doesn’t. 

Allura says no more. He’s glad for it. 

He’d known the story, of course. It had become something of a fairy tale throughout the empire, grim as it was, that their grand emperor had survived death’s kiss in an attempt to save his ailing wife, the exalted empress with a mind blessed by the gods themselves, but that she had perished in an untimely manner, leaving him with only a son she had birthed before death. Zarkon, however, the hero— He had  _ denied _ a fate so foul and had risen from the grave, leading their people towards glory and towards vengeance for a dead wife and a planet left decimated by the wretched Alteans. 

But Honerva hadn’t survived, and that had been the mistake that left her name disgraced and eventually erased from the texts altogether, an embarrassment to her husband’s legacy. Common citizens of generations that had come later didn’t possess the privilege of knowing their emperor’s wife had been Altean, nor that his son, their dishonorable prince, was one himself. Only those of rank—those who had the intelligence  _ fitted _ to their rank—seemed to know the truth, at least vaguely. 

To think he’d believed the fairy tale once makes him ill. He’d always been aware of his heritage; Zarkon didn’t allow him to forget, but he never bothered to explain the shame behind Lotor’s ancestry, only that it was there. His mother’s name was something he’d learned from Dayak. It was only when he was older that she’d allowed him access to a library of data thought destroyed, encrypted and sometimes corrupted code hidden behind walls. 

It was text written by ancient Galra who were long dead at that point, bitterly detailing Daibazaal’s failing state and, in some cases, disregarding law and laying blame to the empress. They had been present at its destruction, their survival credited to the Paladins of Old—to King Alfor himself, a revered figure now despised and scoffed at. His evacuation of Daibazaal had saved not only the Galra race, but the solar system itself. Their logs had ended there; Lotor presumed those Galra had perished alongside the Alteans, their names lost to history. 

And he thinks of a wonder he’d had then.  _ ‘Why did Alfor not save his own people instead?’ _

Any questions he’d had were forgotten with the later discovery of Honerva’s science logs, nestled alongside codes that once belonged to Alfor and his alchemists. Restless nights spent studying were the reason he hadn’t delved deeper into the circumstances of his birth, content with assuming that it had been before Daibazaal’s destruction, a time where an infant’s memory could not reach. 

But there were times where he’d been unable to sleep, gazing up at the silky canopy that curtained his oversized bed, its red the same as the rest of the room. The questions had come then, silent thoughts never spoken but lingering at the back of his mind. When had it happened? Was there celebration among the people? Had there been a holiday dedicated to him as there had been for the now deceased Altean princess? Had Zarkon and Honerva—had they loved him, once, amongst the chaos?

His life has been spent in ignorance, which he supposes is something he’s always been vaguely aware of, but it becomes too real too suddenly as Allura continues. She speaks of the rift again and how, following it, there had been complications in his birth—something he remembers Dayak mentioning in passing, which he’d never taken to heart. He’d been born with eyes that glowed gold and hair as shockingly white as Honerva’s. 

And just like his parents, the rift and its quintessence had seeped into his very being. 

“Dayak said she assumed you weren’t as affected as Zarkon and Honerva,” says Allura. “But she told us that you’d been stewing in a pool of quintessence even before birth, and—”

“I died.” It’s the first thing he’s able to say, and it’s spoken quietly, his throat tight. He sits again, staring at his lap with unfocused eyes. “I died.”

“—Yes.”

It’s hard to grasp. His mind swims with a headache that cannot be relieved. Dwelling on this isn’t good for him, he knows that. “And the quintessence field only worsened this… this…” 

He struggles for a word that Allura finds for him. 

“Corruption.”

“And the ‘wild spells’ Dr. Wright mentioned?”

Allura nods, gravely.

Lotor breathes and shuts his eyes, head bowing. His hair falls over his shoulders and frames his face. He can’t bring himself to look at the rest, aware of how the mood has changed yet again. He thinks he should keep a counter.

“Lotor,” says Allura, softly. She reaches a hand out only to draw it back when he flinches away. There’s a flicker of hurt in her eyes, but she doesn’t mention it. “Something dangerous lives inside of the rift. Something that cannot be explained by science alone, and whatever it is, it hurt Zarkon, it hurt Honerva, and it… It hurt you, too.” She lowers her gaze and barely hides how tears begin to pool at the corners of her eyes, which both moves and irritates Lotor. “I hate saying it—” 

Then don’t. 

“—but Zarkon had been a good man before his death, and Father… He had always sung praise for Honerva. The rift changed them.”

But that change had been by their design. They’d made the choice to go into the rift—to even research it in the first place, putting themselves and their people and their unborn baby in harm’s way. They’d been selfish. They’d been cruel. 

They hurt the universe and they hurt Lotor. It didn’t matter if something in the rift had changed them, because it hadn’t changed much, apparently. They were to blame. This was their fault. 

But Lotor does not say this because he knows how hypocritical it is. He’s the one who continued Honerva’s research. Perhaps he’s at fault as much as they are. 

And children have died because of him. He doesn’t forget their faces—so small and innocent and devoid of color and life. 

His stomach churns and he inhales, slowly, before gazing at Allura. 

She’s trying to be kind, he knows that. These are words she doesn’t have to speak, and yet she does, her voice tight, her eyes wet. She’s a gracious soul, one who doesn’t deserve the misery that has plagued her. He knows that he’s contributed to that misery, however, so he doesn’t make move to comfort her. It isn’t within his rights. 

Moments such as these make him hate how everchanging the universe is. There had been a time where he’d been ready to give Allura his entirety, but now—now he was left with nothing to offer. 

It’s a minute later when Allura gathers herself—a trained trait—and continues. “Knowing what we knew, we decided that just leaving you to Honerva’s will wasn’t right. It took several encounters before we were able to retrieve you, and you put up a fight. I have the scar to prove it.”

Lotor’s blood runs cold.

“But I was able to subdue you. Barely. Since then, I’ve been healing you over intervals while you sleep. It’s when you put up the least resistance.”

Lotor thinks of his first time waking here. He’d been manic. Allura’s touch had saved him, returning him to reality. 

“Eventually you  _ did _ come to, but you had bouts over the course of several weeks where you’d lose yourself again.”

He remembers how, in those brief moments of consciousness, he’d ached terribly. Migraines had left him nearly blinded. 

“It’s been a slow process, one that’s succeeding, yes, but… I haven’t been able to draw it all out. It hurts us both when I try, and I’ve exhausted what I’ve learned from Oriande, and I can’t re—” She pauses and deliberately changes course. “I fear that the corruption runs deeper than thought.”

Allura forces herself to look at him, though all he sees in her is remorse and guilt and, beneath those, terror. 

“I fear that it’s all that’s keeping you  _ alive _ .”

“Alive,” he echoes. The word is hollow and bitter and tainted. As far as any cosmic force is concerned, as far as his  _ father _ was concerned, his life had been a mistake. He knows now that, perhaps, Zarkon had been right. It makes him sick. “I shouldn’t  _ be _ alive.”

It hurts to think about—to think he might never have been here. Something in him screams to forget, repress, move on, but he can’t, and he doubts that anyone will let him. Knowing that his life has never truly been his own is a stab to his pride. He flexes his fingers, stares at his palm, and then raises a hand to his chest, seeking out his heartbeat and breathing with the familiar skips. 

He’s here. Barely.

His hand falls back to his thigh and grips the fabric there, then relaxes. Repress. A thought hounds him. It’s a distant and gravelly and oddly familiar voice that says,  _ ‘You weren’t worth saving.’ _

There are several moments where he lets this thought consume him. He doesn’t immediately notice Allura touching his shoulder, her brows drawn together worriedly. “Lotor,” she says, “what matters is that you  _ are _ alive. You’re here now. And you’re safe.”

When he looks at Allura, the room—the world itself—falls away, and he wonders why anything was ever deemed worthy to exist in the same space as her. She’s pristine, the very picture of beauty with clear open eyes and the perfect curve of a smile, a pillar of strength, a woman destined for greatness. To know that he lives in her presence is an honor and a privilege, and something that he ruined for himself, four years ago. What good was a pauper to a princess?

Lotor breathes and feels himself begin to relax, taut muscles unwinding, a lazy smile curling onto his mouth. “I’m here because of you,” he says softly, as though it is a private mantra he recites only for her. “I owe you my life, Princess.”

He does what he can to cherish that fleeting moment, for Allura draws her hand back, her smile now playful. “You owe me a castle.”

And Lotor laughs despite himself. “Give it a century and I’m sure I can drag something from the depths of space—”

And then he stops. Everything stops. A new panic rises in his throat as he flexes his fingers again. Another memory reaches him—one of aching hands and tense muscles and holding on for dear life for, what, weeks, months, perhaps even years?

It’s not only the castle that’s been lost.

“Where,” he asks, “is Sincline?”

Keith says, evenly, “With Haggar.”

It’s an answer he’d expected and yet it hits him like a blow to his face. He knows well just how far Haggar’s greed extends. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised. He weathers Keith’s reply. Lotor leans his forehead into his hand. 

This isn’t the first time Haggar has taken from him just to benefit her own wicked yearnings, and, as he’s learning, it won’t be the last either. 

He wonders when this game began, but it’s a list so long that he can’t pinpoint a single first instance, only knowing that there’s been so,  _ so _ many. Narti comes to mind—a recent case, a case he’d promptly disposed of himself, though regret had run deep when the first bloom of red appeared on her stomach. He remembers how his blood had chilled and how there hadn’t been time to dwell after, not until he was stowed away in a pathetic prison cell within the Castle of Lions. 

It’s been nearly five years years since then, and four since he’d last seen Ezor, Zethrid—and Acxa. There’s a certain bitterness that taints his thoughts of them, and yet, in the deepest recesses of his heart, he worries. They’re capable—it’s part of the reason he’d taken them on as his generals—but not knowing seeded fear for their well-being. 

He’ll ask later.

The paladins discuss something and he hasn’t been listening, but he interrupts, vexed, “You say the ships are with Haggar, and yet you are not mobilizing an entire fleet to retrieve them? I nearly  _ killed _ you with those ships—yet you’ve left them to the will of a  _ witch _ seeking power than can cross gods themselves?”

Several moments pass until Pidge says, under her breath, “Yeah, thanks for reminding us.”

Lotor stands suddenly and leans his hands on the table, feeling it tremble beneath his weight. “The Sincline ships were designed using what I could find of King Alfor’s schematics for Voltron. They’re enhanced weaponry with abilities I’m not yet aware of myself. You were able to retrieve me—so why not them?”

“Retrieving you,” says Keith, similarly aggressive, “was already a big task as it was. Don’t think you can just stand there and act like we didn’t consider all our options.”

Lotor feels the beginning of a laugh nearly bubble out of him.  _ You haven’t before _ , he thinks, but bites his tongue and spits back, “With those ships at her disposal, Haggar could easily take a large fraction of the universe.”

“Hey.” A chair rattles as Lance stands, too, his brows drawn. He’s not menacing whatsoever, even when he leans across the table to intrude on Lotor’s space. “Give us a break, okay? You should be happy we even bothered going after you!”

“ _ Lance _ ,” hisses Allura.

“Oh, come on,” says Lance, his voice pitched, “we’re all thinking it! Pity is one thing, acting on it is totally different.”

There’s more sound as Hunk jumps up and puts a hand on Lance’s shoulder, as though trying to mollify him, but Lance shrugs him off. Hunk’s eyes dart between the two, and then he groans as Keith stands, any caution forgotten in pursuit of petty pride.

“Lance, Keith, come on—” tries Hunk.

Lotor, equally intense and apparently far more concerned than the rest, gazes hard at Lance. There’s a head’s difference in height between them—which shouldn’t make Lotor feel like he’s won, and yet.

“I don’t recall  _ asking _ for your pity,” says Lotor through his teeth.

Lance scoffs. “Yeah, well, you sure seem happy about it now, don’t ya? Considering you’re totally fine with cozying up to Allura—”

Another hand—Shiro’s—slams on the table, which nearly gives under the force. Silence falls suddenly. Lance has jumped back. Hunk sits obediently and immediately. Keith, seemingly guilty, sits after a moment, too. Shiro stands, however, regarding them.

“That’s  _ enough _ ,” he commands. “We’re here to work together, not tear at each other’s throats. I know this is a tense situation, but if we’re going to make this happen, then we have to discuss these matters calmly.” He looks pointedly at Lance for a moment. Lance swallows and sits back down. “And  _ without _ accusations.” 

And then Shiro looks at Lotor the same way, but Lotor has seen worse. Still, he leans back, shuttering any anger. It’s not his place to question authority, let alone Shiro’s, who is obviously of rank in this facility. Squabbling “cadets” don’t seem out of Shiro’s realm of expertise, though Lotor thinks he himself hardly qualifies as a mere cadet.

But he wears the uniform, and so there’s no arguing with officials. He knows better than to let himself go off like that. It only brings trouble. It had been the same at Central Command, too, where no one spare himself had bothered to argue Zarkon’s incessantly mad demands. 

Lotor had been verbally whipped afterwards, and then literally whipped by Dayak. 

When the mood starts returning to normal and the only noise is that of a clock, Shiro, pleased, settles back into his seat. The firm line of his jaw sets. “Alright,” he says, gesturing for Lotor to sit as well, but Lotor doesn’t, “now that we’ve put all our thoughts and feelings out there—”

“I’ve known the witch,” murmurs Lotor, “far longer than the rest of you.  And I know you’ve all been victim to her dealings—” He looks at Shiro and Allura as he says this. “—but you haven’t witnessed them firsthand as many times as I. Watching planets fall to ruin just because it might be a fun experiment for her, it’s… difficult. Horrifying.” He crosses his arms and worries his lower lip. “And her having those ships is a greater risk than you seem to realize.”

“Lotor,” says Allura after a beat passes, “we know the risk. The ships weren’t our first priority.”

“They should have been.”

It’s not his intention to seem ungrateful; it’s just that fear plagues him. Haggar isn’t the type to go down without taking someone with her, and with the power she now possesses, there’s no telling how many may meet their demise by her hands. He’d almost been a victim to his mother, himself. He doesn’t want to watch the same thing happen to anyone else. Not again.

The paladins say nothing in objection. They’re grimly aware of what they’ve left to her, and should anything happen, they’re the ones who would be blamed first. They carry that burden now.

To Lotor, Keith says, reluctantly, “It’s not just you and your ships.”

“What do you mean?”

“What he means,” says Shiro, “is that she’s amassed an army.” He hesitates and looks to Allura who, with a shuttered expression, nods. Shiro says, “An army of Alteans.”

Lotor’s breath hitches. Shiro and Allura gauge his reaction before Shiro pulls up a screen from his device that displays pictures of a disassembled robot, white in color, lean, and nearly destroyed. It looks like scrap, but had it been untouched, it would be an undoubtable beauty. But Lotor does not dwell on its craftsmanship or the fine details. He doesn’t need to.

“This,” says Shiro, “is a mech that attacked Earth over a year ago. It possessed abilities similar to the Komar—which we now know is because of Honer—”

“Haggar,” says Lotor, distractedly.

“...Because of Haggar’s effect on it. And it was powered by—” Shiro changes the picture to that of a redheaded girl, young and slim, her appearance undeniably familiar. She’s attached to several monitors, asleep and unaware. “—an Altean.”

Lotor approaches Shiro and numbly takes the device from him, browsing the several photos available. They range in subject. There are barely any of the young Altean—who Lotor recognizes as a daughter of the colony—just a few for reference. To Lotor’s shock, she seems—healthy. 

But she shouldn’t be. She shouldn’t. 

The rest are images of the mech itself, from different angles. Interrupting those are personal shots of sceneries that must have been categorized incorrectly. 

Lotor is silent for what feels like a long while, staring, the dim orange glow of the screen highlighting him. He feels his eyes begin to itch and ache. 

“When she woke,” says Allura, watching Lotor carefully, “we questioned her, but she was delusional. It took several weeks for her memory of the event to return, and then she outright refused to answer our questions. Even if she’d wanted to, I doubt she could have. The mech had her drained.”

“Drained,” echoes Lotor.

“Yes. She— She asked about you.”

There’s an ache in the hollow of Lotor’s throat; the pain in his eyes worsens and becomes almost unbearable. He draws in a breath, but it shudders. Something wet fogs his vision. No one seems to notice.

Pidge continues, “But because of the mech’s druid-like abilities, it didn’t take long for us to figure out that Haggar was behind this. We asked the Altean about her, but she didn’t answer us. She’s really stubborn. But we were able to pull coordinates from her flight suit after—” She grimaces, looking to Hunk. “After many, many nights.”

“Oh,” Hunk groans, “those stunk.”

Lotor listens to their tale, dazed, entranced. He doesn’t know how this has happened. 

“Upon following the coordinates,” says Allura, “we found a facility. We thought we might find more Alteans, or maybe find some answers as to what Haggar’s plans are, but… there were no other Alteans there. Just y—”

“You said the mechs had the same ability as the Komar,” Lotor interrupts, the pressure in his head finding a rhythmic tempo that throbs in his ears. It spreads from his temple and into his neck and then down his spine, his skin rising with several small bumps. He’s cold. 

He shuts his eyes, briefly, before addressing the room. The paladins stare at him and he sees their caution. They don’t want to give away too much, or perhaps are unaware of  _ how much _ is too much. Lotor frowns and waits.

“—Yes,” Keith answers after a moment. “And we would know. The Komar has drained us before.”

“I’m aware.” Lotor sets the device down on the table and braces himself against it, sweat dampening the back of his neck. His limbs feel weak and it must show, because Allura stands to support him on one side. Lotor draws his mouth into a fine line. “It shouldn’t  _ have _ those abilities.”

A charge sparks through the air. Keith stands, too, with hands clenched at his side. There’s a hint of danger in his tone—and everyone is on edge. Lotor feels how Allura has gone rigid beside him, though she still has hold of his arm.

Keith asks, “How would you know?”

“I know,” says Lotor, “because I designed it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big thanks again to raw, sarah, gyo, and maria for beta-ing. and to all of you, thank you dearly for the comments you've left. they've been my motivation going forward.

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to my betas, sarah, maria, raw, and sam('s emotional support). and many thanks to you for giving it a read!


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